Sunday, December 25, 2016

"All right," said Susan. "I'm not stupid.
You're saying humans need... fantasies to make life bearable."

"REALLY?" said Death. "AS IF IT WAS SOME
KIND OF PINK PILL? NO. HUMANS NEED FANTASY TO BE
HUMAN. TO BE THE PLACE WHERE THE FALLING ANGEL MEETS THE RISING APE."

"Tooth fairies? Hogfathers? Little—"

"YES. AS PRACTICE. YOU HAVE TO START OUT LEARNING TO
BELIEVE THE LITTLE LIES."

"So we can believe the big ones?"

"YES. JUSTICE. MERCY. DUTY. THAT SORT OF
THING."

"They're not the same at all!"

"YOU THINK SO? THEN TAKE THE UNIVERSE AND GRIND IT
DOWN TO THE FINEST POWDER AND SIEVE IT THROUGH THE FINEST SIEVE AND THEN SHOW
ME ONE ATOM OF JUSTICE, ONE MOLECULE OF MERCY. AND YET"—Death waved a
hand. "AND YET YOU ACT AS IF THERE IS SOME IDEAL ORDER IN THE WORLD, AS IF
THERE IS SOME... SOME RIGHTNESS IN THE UNIVERSE BY WHICH IT MAY BE JUDGED."

"Yes, but people have got to believe that, or what's
the point—"

"MY POINT EXACTLY."

-Terry Pratchett, Hogfather

Merry Christmas/ Yule/ whatever celebration you celebrate to everyone! I hope you are all safe and in the company of the ones you love.

Wednesday, December 14, 2016

I recently read that grief isn't a process, but rather a new way of seeing things. It was one of the best ways I have seen grief described. I'm still mourning for my friend Virve and it has altered my entire perception. I will include the quote at the end of this paragraph. Some might find it helpful. I did find it helpful.

How do triggers work? They work due to the mind's
ability to make associations and connections. You see something that for
another person means nothing, or something positive. For you, however,
it has a very different meaning and causes vastly different feelings. For example today I saw a bottle of soda water on my desk. I wanted to give you that bottle because you love soda. Then I remembered we're no longer together. That's a perfect example of a trigger. A soda bottle made me feel sadness and a sense of futility.

Don't get me wrong. I don't regret a thing I did for you, and I don't consider it futile because you didn't appreciate it. I am who I am. Nothing can change me. Only death can take my personality away. When my time comes, death will step in lightly and transmute my being into something bigger and brighter and literally larger than life. Death is the one place, the one condition that wipes the slate clean of everything. And guess what, the first thing to go are our lies. All the lies we told ourselves and other people are gone like morning mist under the blazing sun. For death is yet another sun; it shines black and negative and peaceful in its anti-existence. The doorway opens and you step through it naked as a baby. Everything you have been holding onto for comfort is gone.

When your comforting lies and possessions are gone, I hope each of you will hold onto the one thing no-one can take from you, not even death. Your dignity.

Tuesday, December 06, 2016

My friend J. gave me to watch the old British sitcom Black Books. It's so funny it makes my knees rubbery. There are instances I have fallen off my chair and struggle to breathe between waves of laughter so painful that my stomach hurts. I have grown a six pack because of the damn series, and it's good, I guess, because there is no other way I'd ever grow a six pack. I am far more likely to grow tusks.

I am window shopping inks for my beloved fountain pens since I came across this amazing site on how to take proper care of my babies. The majority of my writing nowadays is done on the PC, with the exception of my diary. Still nothing can replace the feeling of a fountain pen in my hand and the steady, velvety flow of ink on paper. There is absolutely no comparison with any electronic device.

It's scary and adorable how much the inside of the Black Books bookshop reminds me of my home. There is nothing resembling normal in my life, except for the fact I have a job and a house. The rest is pretty much random heaps of objects and cats, jumbled occurrences and an insane, if adorable, mom. It's OK, I don't really mind. That's how it is and there is no reason to worry about it. Things will take care of themselves, I guess, or they won't, and I'll have to take care of them. I'll cross that bridge when I get there. In the meantime, worrying is a waste of time. I have a very difficult December looming ahead, with very long work hours and a mob ahem... customers wanting to buy Christmas gifts and pralines. The fact the majority would love to lace those same pralines with poison to get rid of their relatives is not strictly relevant. ;)

The human race is equipped with an amazing ability to go on living even after a nuclear disaster. Look at me, window shopping ink while I still can't figure out a valid reason we are inhabiting this poor, poor planet. There are nights the owner of Black Books is an avid humanitarian compared to me. Other nights, I want to take care of everyone. But still, here I am tonight looking at inks and wondering if lilac is a good colour choice and if it will still be readable in twenty years from now. As if there's any guarantee I'll still be here in twenty years from now. Heh. Humans.

Enjoy a new song by P'haan and Calliah while you're here. They are as good as pralines, maybe better.

Monday, November 28, 2016

The following dialogue is taken from the movie
"Interstellar". Highly recommended.

COOPER

"You’re a scientist, Brand -"

BRAND

"I am. So listen to me when I tell you that love isn’t
something we invented - it’s observable, powerful. Why shouldn’t it mean
something?"

COOPER

"It means social utility - child rearing, social
bonding -"

BRAND

"We love people who’ve died ... where’s the social
utility in that? Maybe it means more - something we can’t understand, yet.
Maybe it’s some evidence, some artifact of higher dimensions that we can’t
consciously perceive. I’m drawn across the universe to someone I haven’t seen
for a decade, who I know is probably dead. Love is the one thing we’re capable
of perceiving that transcends dimensions of time and space. Maybe we should
trust that, even if we can’t yet understand it."

Yes, but love takes effort. And it takes effort because
like light, love is made of myriads of tiny particles; kindness, generosity,
understanding, selflessness, care... This is the secret that allows it to
transcend space and time. Every one of these characteristics is about
overcoming, transcending, breaking through the barriers of everyday life,
normality, expectation. Beyond gaining, beyond life itself in some cases.

"Do not go gentle into that good night; Old age
should burn and rave at close of day. Rage, rage against the dying of the
light."

Thursday, November 10, 2016

Today I wanted to write something that makes sense, but I found myself incapable of saying anything other than one syllable words like "shit", "fuck" and "fuck this shit". No, I don't want to analyse why electing the next Hitler of mankind and giving him access to nuclear codes is insane. I can't even begin to analyse why this misogynist, racist, disgusting man is a terrible blow to everything I hold sacred, to human rights and the evolution of human race. I wish I could send him and his voters to a planet in another solar system and leave them there, to let us the rest of us live in peace AWAY from them. But as I said, I won't analyse. May whatever Higher Power exists, if something exists, have mercy on us all. End of analysis. I'll drink my tea now. Soothes the nerves.

A few days ago I was on Ymittos at night, the mount near my home. It was awesome, because the cloudy sky provided plenty of illumination and I had good company. The best bits were the total absence of artificial light and the wind in the trees. The forest speaks in sounds unlike human languages, in rustlings, shakings and creakings, in the soft sound of leaf kissing leaf. Forests at night are another world; different rules, no human presence, no-one to help you except for your wits and common sense. Words can't communicate the beauty of the night outdoors, the sensation you aren't alone, the irrational certainty that tree somehow got closer since the last time you looked at it.

When I am in a forest, I speak to it and explain I mean no harm, but there are things in such places that mean you harm regardless of your intentions. Nature isn't your mother. Nature is the Queen Bitch of all bitches, and you should treat her like a tigress that can pop out claws and rip you apart any time she feels like it. God(s) know we deserve it for what we've done to the planet.

I love the night, I love the forest. But at the same time I'm smart enough to respect and fear it. In the forest of my mind, alongside wonders I host monsters, and what is inside will inevitably be met outside.

Which reminds me. A few weeks ago I was returning home on foot. It was late at night, and I chanced upon the carcass of a ginger tom-cat on the pavement. Judging by the blood in his mouth, he had been run over by a car. But someone had also burned his cheek and his fur at parts, which made me sick. I do hope that person did that to the carcass, and not before; I think that was the case.

I picked the poor fellow up and put him in a garbage bin. I had to empty a bag of garbage and use it to pick him up, but I felt it was the right thing to do, to somehow undo the damage done to him and offer him the respect he was denied. Who would do such a thing? Why would anyone do that? And how long before that person does the same to a living cat? I don't want to consider these questions. It makes no difference, and I did my part.

We live in a very fucked up world that's light years away from making sense, let alone from perfection. That's why we have to hold onto those things and people who make us feel happy and whole, imperfect as they may be.

Sunday, October 23, 2016

No such thing as perfection. But we try. And we both have stupid smiles on our faces. So I guess it can only get better. Or worse. Or not work out. But that's life. No guarantees, no safe bets. Just leaps of faith, one after the other. And that's OK.

Saturday, October 22, 2016

Last night I was doing my personal brand of research combined to divination. So there was this Archangel, whose name was Iblis, and he was also called Azazel by some, and Melek Taus by others. Some went as far as to call him Saitan. And he was made by pure flame, or by the illumination of God, or he wasn't an angelic being to begin with. And he was cast out as a scapegoat/ punished for his pride/ redeemed after crying enough to put out the fires of hell itself. And his symbols are the snake, the goat and the peacock. His element is fire. It is also said he was the leader of the angels who slept with mortal women creating thus the Nephilim; others claim he offered knowledge to man like Prometheus did, and others still that he mated with Lilith creating incubi and succubi. Confusing? Generally speaking, for every story there is another that renders it invalid or irrelevant. Usually the best way to judge is your heart. What feels right inside.

Creation myths are fun. You have the idiots that take them at face value and refuse Darwin's theories. What do you mean 'evolution'? God created Adam and Eve, duh. (Insert triple facepalm here.) You have those who analyse them in a language so obscure only others like them understand them, and they pat each other's backs for being so knowledgeable. You have conspiracy theorists, crooks who claim they are gurus, churches that cause mass suicides and so on and so forth. Literally every flavour of idiot under the sun. So choose wisely my pretty buttercups. Are you going to be the ones who take advantage of others, the ones who are being taken advantage of, or the ones standing at the side, watching chaos unfold? Your only power in this world is your choices.

And then there is Lucifer and Lilith. And there is also everyday life, divination and death. Attempts to save sick cats. Lack of money. The nagging certainty he'll be sick of me, or I'll be bored of him, and we've barely started to get to know each other. Ha ha. The mind is an amazing thing indeed. You have everything neatly stored in it, demons, angels and universes, shopping lists, stupid complexes and expectations, art, memories, anniversaries and deaths. Heavens and hells and enough tears to put out the fires of existence itself.

And then there's chocolate... When chocolate ceases to offer sweet oblivion it's time to die. :P

Thursday, October 13, 2016

I am dating. It's probably a sign of the end of the world. Take cover, keep your nuclear bunker stocked, wear clean underwear and don't talk to strangers with more than two eyes. If it starts raining frogs and the such, you'll be ahead of the game. :-P

Wednesday, August 24, 2016

My insomnia symptoms have spiked again in the past few days. I can't sleep before ten in the morning. For the time being, it is fine, because I am on holiday. But soon I begin working again, and not getting any sleep at night is not going to help me.

Twice this week I could not sleep. Twice I chose to get out of bed and run some errands, hoping I would fall asleep once I was back home. It usually works.

It's interesting walking the streets very early in the morning. There are just a few people out. The sky is blue and the temperature isn't unbearable yet. Passers-by think I woke up early, while I haven't slept at all and feel like an imposter among the early birds. I'm usually giddy with self-sarcastic, surreal humour, mocking myself and the situation and having conversations with myself out loud. What can I do? I can't sleep. It has to do with who I am, how I react to energy and what I've been through. I'm usually the first to know when something is awry energy-wise. I didn't ask to be made this way and I can't undo the way I am. I'll never be 'normal'. I don't think normal really exists. So I try to squeeze some laughs in it. Nagging is useless. It will pass.

Monday, August 08, 2016

I have a
brain like an artichoke right now, so maybe writing a blog post is not a
good idea. But to hell with it. I have made up my mind about stuff.
Here are my decisions.

One, I won't spend any more time thinking about the fuckwads who have been nasty or mean to me. It's pointless and it makes me angry. Anger is something I have so much of I can open an export company, or give my surplus to those in need. So, no more thinking about those that used to be friends, lovers, penpals, whatever the fuckity fuck ever. It's over. It's dead. It belongs to the past. *middle finger raised in solemn salutation* Good riddance to bad luck.

Two, I won't spend any more time thinking about where I am supposed to be versus to where I am now. It makes me depressed and I honestly can't deal with it. Plus it is as pointless as #1. I can't do anything about it. Maybe I don't care enough, maybe I am not trying enough, maybe this reality is a rigged simulation run by a type IV Kardashev scale civilisation and no matter how much I try, it doesn't and won't respond to my efforts. In any case, no can do, and that's that.

It is indeed. But I don't have the cure for others. I can only help myself.

Three, I can't spend a second more worrying about the fate of humanity, the situation of the world, the pollution, poverty, human trafficking, war, violence against women and so on. I refuse to give more time and energy to that gigantic clusterfuck of monstrosities. I didn't create those situations and consequently I can't solve them and refuse to dwell on them. The injustice of the situation makes me sick with rage. It makes me yell at the heavens at unorthodox hours when everyone is sleeping, and takes away the joy of living. So I will put my efforts in what I can do, however pitifully small that may be, and sign petitions, and feed my stray cats and take care of my friends. The rest, no way Jose. I can't, and it is not my responsibility.

Four, I will follow the advice of a dear friend. Stand your ground, stick to your own. I know who "my own" are. They are there for me. They may not have solutions to my problems, but they are happy to discuss books, movies, series and every day life with me. They call, they write, they make me laugh, they listen. This is more than most people have and I don't take it for granted.

It’s safe to say this book sums up everything I hate.
Skye, the protagonist, is a Mary Sue, or perhaps I should say, a redhead Sookie
Stackhouse with a love for rock music. She is gorgeous, but not aware of it. In
spite of her Ancient History and Classical Civilization major, she speaks like
a Texan cliché with the brain of an ostrich. She’s also petty, insecure,
shallow and irritating. She supposedly is feminist but we soon realise she’s
just an entitled hypocrite. She has no sense of social boundaries and more mood
swings than a pregnant baboon. Her only redeeming quality is her love for her
dog. Which leads us to the next question. Who the hell calls their dog Styvi
Nix? If you stopped me on the street and asked me what Styvi Nix is, I would
have said chest rub ointment.

So, little gothic Mary Sue leads a very exciting life.
We’re offered detailed descriptions of all the times she showers, washes her
hair, brushes her teeth, pets her dog, the toys she buys for her dog, what she does
with them and her dog, what time she goes to bed with her dog, the types and
brands of clothes, make-up and perfume she wears, what she eats for breakfast,
supper, dinner, the drinks she buys, what she buys when she goes shopping in
general… These completely pointless descriptions take about one third to half
of the book. I almost felt cheated when we didn’t get any details on her stool
production. I mean, I really feel left out. The suspense is a killer. Don’t do
this to me. I need to know.

But wait. She is tough, because she takes Krav Maga
lessons. Is she really? Almost every time she needs to defend herself, a man
steps in and saves her. Maybe I misunderstand her, because she was unlucky in
love. Well, judging by her actions, she hardly deserves the higher moral
ground. When she gets the chance, she does the same and worse, and has the
nerve to act insulted on top. But double standards are fine, because, you know,
she is the protagonist and her drama and the unfairness of life makes a single
teardrop appear and slowly roll down my cheek. Let’s form a circle and pat each
others' backs to feel better.

The male characters of the book. Mmm. They all fall under
three categories. Brainless daddy substitutes, ass-grabbing assholes, or
generic vampire hunks with stunning abs. Which brings us to Archer. Oh, sweet
Archer, you could have been a copycat of Christian Grey minus the BDSM
paraphernalia and adding fangs. Bearing in mind I hold Christian Grey in the
same high regard as a leper’s steaming turd, I wasn’t a fan. He’s a
passive-aggressive, threatening, yelling, patronising ass, and I kept hoping he
would be squashed by a titanium safe, or killed in a terrible accident
involving a tank, a volcano and accidentally swallowing copious amounts of
semtex. If only.

Pretty much nothing happens in this book. Except for the
spine-chilling, toe-curling reports of shopping, grooming and eating, fits of
jealous rage by almost everyone, some murders far off in the background and
generic vampire hunks speaking in Gaelic, I could summarise everything in a
paragraph. The only memorable event happens in the last chapter and then you
have to buy the next one in the series to see what that is about. Personally,
I’d rather stuff my face with poisonous frogs and wear a bramble bra for a week
than read more of this series. If, on the other hand, you enjoyed Sookie
Stackhouse and Christian Grey novels, you’ll probably find this book riveting.
Dunno. Go for it.

This is a convenient place for all those pieces of prose that are not short stories, and can be understood by more than one person to be confined in my diary. If you find yourselves annoyed or disappointed, please move on to another blog. Thank you!

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